Consider this your daily link to Dave McKenna's "Cranky Redskins Fan's Guide to Dan Snyder," but here it is again for good measure. We'll post this until Dan Snyder's dumbass libel suit is dosed with a few micrograms of polonium-210. (For those of you keeping track, this is "We Are All Dave McKenna CCVII.")

Today: the seventh installment of "The Snydering," our satirical, non-libelous Dan Snyder serial group fiction. Our author is a former Six Flags employee who has requested anonymity. He worked for the company before Snyder took over. In other words, he worked there before Snyder started hawking "official" Six Flags mattresses for $1,299 and ran the place into the ground. For more about "The Snydering" and how to play, please read this explanation.

Part VII: "Mr. Snyder Likes His Corpses Fresh," by Anonymous Former Six Flags Employee:

"Lose something?" the driver asked.

"I had... I mean, I thought... I mean, yes, sorry." My wallet was somewhere in the Snyder manse. For all I knew, Wyllie and the abomination that had been Mrs. Snyder were chewing away at its contents as I spoke. "I can pay you, it's just going to take me a few minutes to set up a line of credit at the hotel."

"Don't worry about it," he said. He turned around to face me. I hadn't noticed anything about him at all. I was too shaken from the things that I had seen, things that were unholy, things that no man should have to face. I sensed that I had only skimmed the surface of the horrors. For a moment, I was worried that the driver himself had been altered by Snyder's greed in some way, but he seemed normal. The only odd thing about him was the hat—the kind of grayish fedora that had gone forever out of style when Tom Landry died.

"I know you," I said. "From the lockout."

"Keep quiet, then. Let's drive around a bit. Unless you'd rather go back to your hotel."

I nodded, and he put the cab in gear. We took a couple of laps around the monuments before he spoke again.

"Do you want back in there?" he asked.

I wanted my wallet back. I wanted to complete my mission. Even more importantly, I wanted my dignity, or what was left of it. I wanted to destroy whatever other unGodly aberrations of nature and science Snyder had at his disposal.

"I need to go back. I'm afraid. I won't say that I'm not. But I need to do something."

"You want to strike a blow."

"How do I do that?"

"You are asking the wrong gentleman. Not that I didn't do my best. We tried. We got a lot of concessions. But it wasn't enough. Part of it was the paycheck, but most of it was the allure of the game. They wanted to play. They will always want to play, even as it destroys them. That is what they do."

"That's not what I do."

"No. That's why you have to go back in. I just have one question for you."

"What's that?" I asked, although I knew what it would be.

"Are you ready to do what it takes to get back in there and destroy Snyder?"

"He pulls a knife, I pull a gun, that kind of thing?"

"Don't be flip. This isn't the time to be flip. This is the time to die."

"Die?"

He slipped me a piece of paper, a clipping from one of the local newspapers. It was an obituary of one Langley Landover, dead at 74. He was an accountant, recently retired from from the Treasury Department, who left behind a wife and three grieving children. The funeral was in two days. "What does this have to do with anything?" I asked.

"Did you read the last line?"

I had. It said longtime Redskins season-ticket holder. "I don't get it."

"You will." He pulled into a large hospital complex.

It was dank and cold in the corridors under the hospital. "Are we going to the morgue?" I asked. It wasn't totally a joke.

"No. That's where Mr. Landover is, bless his soul. If you're going to replace him, we need to get your core temperature down." He opened a door that said PHYSICAL REHABILITATION. "In here. Strip."

"Wait. Just wait. If you have a plan, I need to know right now why it involves me taking my clothes off."

"Because you don't want them to get wet, that's why." Inside the room, there was a whirlpool and several fifty-pound sacks of ice. "I would have thought this was obvious. If you're going to get back in that house, there's only one way to do it."

I poked a tenative finger into the water. It was already cold, and I knew it could get colder. "You want to send me in there in a body bag."

"It is better than coming out that way. Strip. There's not much time. Mr. Snyder likes his corpses fresh."

I got in the whirlpool, and the driver emptied the first bag of ice. "Would you like some reading material while you wait?"

My teeth were already chattering. "S-s-sure."

"This is the standard NFL Personal Seat License agreement. Note that I said standard—this is the leaguewide agreement. Not just for the Redskins. You understand?"

The agreement was on a clipboard; he put it in front of my face. The highlighted section said:

"EARLY TERMINATION: If this agreement is terminated by the untimely death of the Applicant, the Special Procedures in Section 4-XVII:a(viii) of the NFL Franchise Agreement will apply."

"Well, that's the necrophilia clause. If you buy a PSL, and you die before it expires, it triggers the necrophilia clause. That's what was about to happen to Mr. Landover. He didn't read the fine print. Of course, even if he had read it, it wouldn't have mattered—your average fan doesn't get to see documents like the franchise agreement."

I couldn't feel my legs anymore. The driver poured in another sack of ice. It hit the rest of my body like needles.

"S-s-s-o..." I couldn't say anymore. I could barely breathe. I would have given a thousand dollars for a Sheetz grilled cheese sandwich right then.

"So, if you buy a PSL, that means that the owner of your local team has the right to access your dead corpse for sexual purposes for up to four hours."

"Wh-wh-why?"

"Well, I can't answer that. What I can tell you is that this has been something that has gone on for a very long time. No one knows how long. Maybe the Rooneys know. All I know for sure is that everyone in the upper hierarchy of the National Football League is a necrophiliac. They all do it. Al Davis... God, you wouldn't want to know what it's like to watch Al Davis rape the hell out of a dead Raiders fan. I've seen it. I wish I could unsee it. It's disturbing. But Snyder... he's not what you would call a normal necrophiliac. If you know what I mean."

I couldn't feel any more of my body below the neck. The pain had gone, but I was worried about hypothermia and the long-term fate of my reproductive system.

"It explains everything, when you think about it. Not just the owner's attitude towards the fans, although that's part of the reason. Why do you think they encourage so much beer-drinking? Why do they encourage so much unhealthy food? They want a steady stream of dead season-ticket holders. And then there's the whole outreach to women aspect, which came about because..."

"MRRFFF." I said, which was the closest I could manage to "Get me out of this damned whirlpool."

The driver pulled the drain on the whirlpool and rolled over a gurney. The body bag was already draped over the top. He motioned over to the darkness, and a couple of hospital orderlies helped me out of the whirlpool and onto the bag.

"Are you ready? Blink once if you are."

I blinked. I was ready. I was going to infiltrate the Snyder manse as a corpse, and confront not only his madness, but the whole necrophiliac monstrosity of the NFL.

"Godspeed, Mr. Landover. Godspeed." He zipped up the body bag, and I was left alone and cold in the dark.